Night Heron by Adam Brookes

yes, in Jinyi. Those departments.”
    Mangan liked Deputy Spokeswoman Wang. He thought he sensed an ember of irony glowing somewhere in there, behind the façade. Now and then, speaking privately, she might actually tell you something, if you could break her code.
    The silent girls brought bowls of fine, soft crab in a clear broth, shrimp sautéed in pepper and a flaking carp steamedin ginger and scallions. Madam Wang merely lifted her chopsticks and touched the food. Harvey loaded his bowl and ate voraciously.
    “Those other departments, Mr. Mangan, Mr. Harvey, felt that your reporting of the authorities’ efforts to safeguard good order at Jinyi was not entirely fair. And they felt that you were not… straightforward with them. And on the basis of that, they have suggested a review of your accreditations as Beijing-based foreign correspondents.”
    Oh, shit, thought Mangan.
    Harvey stopped chewing.
    “But we in the Foreign Ministry have suggested that would not be appropriate. At this time,” said Madam Wang. See? We protect you, for now. Don’t do it again.
    After another half-hour of excruciating small talk Madam Wang and the minions took their leave. Mangan and Harvey stood, and thanked them gravely for the lunch. Mangan pledged full cooperation and begged the Foreign Ministry’s continued understanding. The restaurant staff escorted Madam Wang’s party out of the restaurant. Harvey turned to Mangan. They looked at each other for a beat and burst into laughter, and Harvey ordered beers.

8
    Beijing
    Stillness is the enemy. So Peanut walked.
    The evening turned chill and clear. Sunset, coming early now, shards of purple cloud strewn to the west. Jianwai Avenue was fraught with traffic, long queues at the bus stops,
Beijing ren
all motion, heading home to the dim, overheated apartment, the mug of tea, the rice bowl, the pork sizzling in the wok.
    Through Altar of the Sun Park, up to the Workers’ Stadium, where the young boys were busy on skateboards, and with the twilight, south on Dongdaqiao. Peanut laced his movement with stops and sudden turns, crossed the road in heavy traffic, readied himself for a first pass of the photocopy shop.
    And there was Wen Jinghan, standing outside the shop, waving at him limply. Dear God, he thought. He crossed the street in sudden, gathering darkness. The professor stood hunched and silhouetted against the harsh neon spilling from the shop window. He held a plastic carrier bag. Inside the shop, assistants in blue shirts and baseball caps worked copiers and faxes.
    “You’re early,” Peanut said.
    “Huasheng, we have to talk.” His voice was weak, tentative.
    “What did you bring?”
    “Not here, for heaven’s sake.” Whining.
    “Give it to me, now.”
    The professor didn’t move.
    “Now.”
    Wen’s hands, Peanut saw, were trembling. He handed over the carrier bag. Peanut took him by the arm and walked him into the copy shop. Then stopped, unsure.
    The professor looked at him. “You have to pay at the counter.”
    “You pay. Hurry up.”
    Wen Jinghan walked slowly to the counter and handed over yuan notes. The assistant gestured with her chin to a free copier. Peanut looked inside the carrier bag.
    A document, thick, ringbound.
    On the cover two characters in red,
juemi
, “Top Secret,” the highest level of classification. Then a number: 157.
    Also, the title:
A Preliminary Report on Certain Questions Relating to Second Stage Failure in Launch Vehicle DF-41, with Implications for Scheduling in MIRV Experimental Launch Programme.
    And underneath:
Leading Small Group on Military Affairs.
    Peanut felt the dryness coming in his mouth. Dear fucking God.
    “Copy it, Jinghan, now.”
    “You will get us killed, like this.” His voice little more than a whisper. “You know that, don’t you?”
    The professor looked close to collapse. Peanut had seen it before, in the prisons, the sudden shrinking of the spirit, in hours sometimes, utter defeat. Peanut shielded Wen as